


A Domestic in Two Acts

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John Watson, Angst, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), Domestic, Drunk John Watson, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Infidelity, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Pining Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation, Understanding Sherlock, introspective john watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-09 02:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12267072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Married life should have been a bed of roses for Sherlock and John, but sometimes you run into thorns in all the usual places, and they still sting...





	1. Chapter 1

“Why, WHY, _WHY_ , Sherlock? _Why_ do you have to keep doing this to me? _Why_ do you keep running off on your own without telling me what’s going on?” John howled in fury as he turned on his husband. He was pacing in circles in the middle of the parlor, his hands in constant motion, gesticulating wildly. He hadn’t even removed his jacket yet because the tirade had started as soon as the front door was closed. Slammed, actually. “You _promised_ , Sherlock! You _bloody well promised_ , when we got married, that you would tell me _everything_ , treat me as an equal partner…”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he removed his greatcoat and hung it on the door, the back of it covered in mud where he had been subduing—and, in turn, being subdued by—the King Street Garrotter, after a lively chase and several close captures. He _knew_ he had run off unannounced again. He _knew_ John couldn’t keep up with his long-legged strides. BUT…he had had _complete_ faith in John’s ability to find him and assist him as able. He _always_ _did_. So he turned to face his irate husband with a steadying breath and, what he hoped would be, a placating smile.

 

“John, I don’t think the neighbors need to hear this, hmmm? And _since_ _when_ have I _not_ treated you with the _utmost_ consideration…”

 

“ _HAH_!” The word blurted out before John could stop it. Sherlock drew himself up straighter than usual, a mildly hurt expression on his face. Normally, John would laugh at the slight pout of that over-full lower lip, but, right now, it just felt like manipulation. “’Consideration?’ You call nipping off, _by yourself_ , without a _single_ word, after a man _known_ to have taken down and throttled a wrestling champion, ‘consideration’? How is _that_ considerate?”

 

Sherlock could see how John was working himself up into a right froth over this. In his mind, it _really_ didn’t merit all the drama. “John, I did that because I _knew_ that you would be right behind me. I _knew_ …”

 

“Well, then, you bloody well don’t know _anything_ , you stupid git! I lost your trail _twice_ and had to double back to find it again. He could have _killed_ you, you idiot! Then what, huh? I would have had to…to…” John stopped, the words catching in his throat, the reality of the situation finally hitting him square in the face. He rubbed the back of his hand across his face. There was a noticeable tremor in it. “I couldn’t go through that again, Sherlock.”

 

“John…” Sherlock said gently, starting toward John, both hands reaching out for him.

 

“ _NO_!” John shouted, recoiling angrily. “ _No_ , Sherlock, _not_ this time. I told you the last time, remember? I told you to include me in your plans. I told you _not_ to run off on me again. I told you, if you did it to me _one more time_ , I’m out of here. I’m _gone_. I can’t do this anymore—watch you risk your life without a _single thought_ about how it will affect _me_!”

 

“Oh, please, John. Don’t hold back. Tell me what your _real_ feelings are,” Sherlock shot back, stung by the rejection. He crossed his arms over his chest and dropped his chin in defiance. “As if you ever _do_. You’re an _expert_ at bottling up your feelings and then letting the fur fly, John. All I _ever_ get out of you any more is anger. Things used to be… _different_.”

 

“Don’t even _go_ there, Sherlock,” John growled, pointing an accusing finger at his husband. “ _Don’t_ …”

 

“What happened, John? You were doing _so_ _well_. You were telling me things—things I had never known about you, about your past. And then, one day, you just…clammed _up_. Started getting _angry_ again. Why?”

 

“I DON’T OWE YOU AN EXPLANATION, SHERLOCK!” John roared up at him.

 

“YES, YOU DO!” Sherlock roared back.

 

“OH, REALLY? AND WHY IS THAT?”

 

“BECAUSE YOU’RE MY HUSBAND, YOU INCREDIBLE TWAT, THAT’S WHY!”

 

“Boys, could you please keep it down up there?” a birdlike voice chimed in from the first floor.

 

“SHUT UP, MRS. HUDSON!” they both yelled.

 

“Well! I _never_ …” They could hear footfalls returning to the apartment and the door being closed angrily.

 

The two husbands glared at each other for several seconds before John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He dropped his head, looking down at the worn oriental rug under his feet, before rubbing the back of his neck and saying, “Look, Sherlock, I don’t want to argue with you. It’s probably just the adrenaline talking.” He looked up at Sherlock’s pale, narrowed eyes and attempted a smile. “Why don’t we just go…” and he jerked his head toward the bedroom, “let off some steam, hm?”

 

Sherlock’s face grew dark. “Is that your answer to _everything_ now, John? “Let’s go fuck”? Sex doesn’t replace talking, you know.”

 

Anger flared up again. “What, you don’t like _sex_ anymore, Sherlock? When did _this_ happen? You were enthusiastic enough about it the other night when Mrs. Hudson was hitting her kitchen ceiling with a broomstick to get you to quiet down!”

 

His voice dangerously charged, Sherlock replied, “I enjoy sex when it is a coupling of two people who love each other and enjoy giving and receiving pleasure together. Lately, however, it’s been an exercise in exorcising _your_ personal demons. There’s been precious little tenderness but _plenty_ of anger on _your_ part.”

 

John suddenly charged forward, fist raised, ready to strike the taller man. Sherlock ducked back but did not retreat, determined not to show any fear in the face of his husband’s rage. John stopped himself before striking, but _only_ just.

 

“Is this what it’s come to, John?” Sherlock asked, his voice dead quiet. He watched the interplay of emotions on John’s face—anger, fear, shame, the sudden realization of what he was about to do—and watched his eyes drop.

 

He didn’t look up when he said, “I’m out of here. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t watch you stupidly risk your life over and over again. I’m _done_. I’ll send for my things later.”

 

Pushing past his husband, John stormed out through the parlor door. He _could_ have gone out through the kitchen but chose, instead, to actually _shove_ Sherlock aside with such force that he stumbled back onto the old couch where they had, just the night before, cuddled up under a blanket, with a cup of tea each, watching a crime show on the telly. John had been laughing hysterically at some of Sherlock’s snarkier observations regarding the police investigative processes. Of course, he was _always_ able to suss out the perp half-way through the show. John had pulled him close and kissed him on the head, telling him how _brilliant_ he was and Sherlock had just smiled and snuggled closer, basking in the warmth of his husbands positive regard.

 

Not so now.

 

John had _never_ been this physical with him before, except for that crazy time in the morgue when Sherlock had been off his head on drugs. In truth, their lovemaking _had_ been more… _vigorous_ , more _forceful_ lately, but Sherlock hadn’t taken it as a sign of any problem in their marriage. It was only in hindsight he could see the indicators. Now, the _biggest_ indicator had just stormed out the door.

 

Sherlock sat on the couch, his arms resting on his spread knees, fingers interlaced, thinking. Would John leave for good, or was this just a temper tantrum? He wasn’t sure, and not knowing was something Sherlock Holmes detested above _all_ else.

 

>>>***<<<

 

The evening was cool but comfortable for only a jacket. John had paced the streets and parks around Baker Street for well over an hour before deciding to stop into a local pub. He wasn’t especially well-known there, so he was able to sit at the bar in relative anonymity. It’s _possible_ Sherlock could find him here if he _truly_ wanted to, but John suspected his sudden outburst had made Sherlock think twice about following him. Not because he was afraid; rather, because he knew John needed the alone time to decompress.

 

It had been a long time since John had felt this disappointed in himself. A _very_ long time. He had just physically threatened the man he loved more than his own life because he couldn’t _talk_ to him, couldn’t tell him what was _really_ bothering him. Not that John was all _that_ sure about what it was _himself_. All he knew was that _something_ had been building up inside for quite a while and it was reaching critical mass. It would come down to either _unload_ or _explode_.

 

A few pints later, John found himself sitting in one of the private booths in the back of the pub. A group of rowdies had come in and grouped around him, all clamoring for their beers and jostling him in the process. His mind was becoming comfortably numb under the influence of a good porter when a lovely young lady slid into the booth opposite him. John took instant notice of her, and for good reason. Her hair was long and straight and a beautiful shade of burnished auburn. She wore round, gold-rimmed glasses, behind which were a pair of the greenest eyes he had seen in many a year. She graced him with a slightly gap-toothed smile.

 

“Sorry to intrude, luv, but those boys over there are just _incredibly_ obnoxious. All I wanted was a drink and one of them started hitting on me! Like I can be bought for the price of a pint! Can you imagine?”

She laughed amiably.

 

John smiled crookedly at her, his eyes half-lidded from drink. He _really_ should have had something to eat before embarking on his hours-long drinking binge. If Sherlock were here, he’d have something pithy to say about it. Pissy, too. Pithy _and_ pissy.

 

He shook his head to clear all thoughts of his husband, back home, all alone, and probably freaking out by now because John had turned his phone off. He just wanted to be alone. Except, maybe, having a little company wouldn’t be such a bad thing if it’s…

 

“I’m sorry, what is your name, sweetheart?” he asked, with marbles in his mouth.

 

“Oh. Della,” she grinned coquettishly. “And you?”

 

“John. John Watson.”

 

She batted her eyelashes at him. “Pleased to meet ya, John.” She looked around coyly. “So, are you here with anyone? A wife, a girlfriend, a mate maybe?”

 

He smiled in what, he hoped, was a charming manner. It would have probably been more successful if he could have felt his face. “Nope. All alone. Jus’ me and my porter.” He raised his half-empty glass in illustration.

 

“Ooh, fantastic!” she all but squealed in delight. “I’m _so_ lucky to have met up with someone so handsome and interesting. And single!” She popped up out of the booth and wiggled in next to John on _his_ side of the table. “So, I’m thinking you can show a girl a good time, yeah? I’ve always liked older men, ya know?” She indicated the rowdies at the front of the pub. “Those boys, they’re just… _boys_ , ya know? Nothing to ‘em. But _you_ … _you’re_ a real cutie.” She winked suggestively and shimmied over until their hips were pressed tightly together.

 

As he turned to look fuzzily at her, she leaned in and planted her coral-tinted lips against his. It was a surprise but a not-altogether- _unwelcome_ one. His eyes closed of their own volition as he relaxed into the kiss, lips parted and sliding hotly against hers. Surprisingly, they were not as plush as Sherlock’s, nor were they both as yielding and demanding as his. His hand slid around the back of her neck, under the straight fall of hair, so unlike Sherlock’s curls, especially that nape curl he so loved to play with. His other hand cupped her face, feeling for, but missing, the sharp jut of cheekbone that he loved to run his fingertips over.

 

She was a good kisser, no doubt about it, but there was something missing. She was too _quiet_. He missed the sounds that Sherlock made when they kissed; soft, quick moans in the back of his throat as their lips played over each other, the heartfelt sighs when they finally broke apart, and that deep, reverberating purr of a voice murmuring “I love you, John. Take me to bed. I’m yours.”

 

He could feel her hand on the small of his back, making little circles with her fingertips. Sherlock always liked to do that whenever they were together and John’s pyjama pants slid down a bit, exposing a hint of bum. He thought about those long, limber fingers, their touch so light and nimble. He would lean over and tease John’s neck with lips and tongue until the universe had narrowed down to just the two of them…

 

Her fingertips slid under his belt, insinuating themselves into his pants in back while her other hand slid over his belly, down toward his lap. He could almost feel that graceful musician’s hand rubbing over his engorging cock, coaxing it to capacity, before freeing it from it’s denim prison.

 

A sudden rush of realization and guilt washed over and threatened to drown him on the spot. _Omigod, Sherlock…It’s not Sherlock, it’s some else, what the hell am I doing, this is wrong, I’m married to the most incredible man on the planet, I can’t screw this up because I’m pissed, I’m so sorry love…!_

 

“Holy shit!” John yelled as he leapt up from his seat, hitting his thighs on the edge of the table and spilling his beer in the process. The girl jumped back, startled. “What the hell? What’s wrong, John? Don’t you want to…”

 

“NO! I mean, yes! I do! Just…just _not with you_!” he stammered in bleary-headed confusion and panic. As the young lady squawked in indignation, John clambered over the table, slid off the end and onto the floor, and rocketed out the front door of the pub, leaving a very disconcerted Della in his wake.

 

The air had gotten considerably cooler than it had been earlier that evening. John looked around him, turning in desperate circles, trying to get his bearings. Everything looked both familiar and unfamiliar at once, thanks to his inebriated state of mind. He set off at a determined pace in what _seemed_ to be the right direction for Baker Street.

 

As he walked, collar flipped up against the chill breeze that blew up out of nowhere, a sleek black Mercedes sidled up beside him, pacing him. He stopped. The car stopped. The door opened and out stepped Anthea, dressed in a black fur coat, ever-present phone in hand. She smiled her usual enigmatic smile and gestured for John to get in. John grunted assent, no longer surprised that Mycroft could find him _anywhere_. He’d had ample experience of _that_ in the past. He slipped into the back seat, followed by the ever-silent Anthea.

 

“So, where is Mycroft taking me _this_ time?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. Mycroft’s aide was, if anything, _less_ inclined to answer questions than Mycroft was.

 

Anthea looked up from where she was texting on her phone with a tight smile. “Home. Where else did you think you’d be going at this time of night?”

 

John shrugged. “Well, knowing Mycroft, it could be anywhere.”

 

Anthea’s face became unusually stern. “Not after you’ve left his little brother an emotional wreck. You’ve got some explaining to do to your husband, _Dr_. Watson.” The chill in her voice was palpable.

 

“What business is that of yours, _or_ Mycroft’s?” he asked, truculently.

 

“None.” She continued texting.

 

A rush of anxiety rose in John’s stomach. “Is Sherlock all right?”

 

A cold look. “Do you really _care_? You haven’t answered his calls all night. He’s been calling _hospitals_ looking for you.”

 

A sudden thought occurred to him. “Did _he_ send you out looking for me?”

 

Anthea snorted delicately. “No. Mycroft called Sherlock about a case and found him _frantic_ with worry about you. He was _in tears_. He said you two had had an argument, that you were leaving him and didn’t love him anymore. Mycroft got me out of a nice warm bed to come find you and bring you back.” Her sideways glance at him was venomous. “It’s a good thing you came to your senses in there.”

 

“In where?”

 

She rolled her eyes eloquently. “The _pub_ , you twat. That _girl_. I was ready to march in there and properly threaten her if you hadn’t come to in time.” When John’s jaw dropped open, she continued on as if she hadn’t noticed. “Mycroft’s orders. There’s _no way_ he’s going to let you break Sherlock’s heart, _Dr_. Watson.” John couldn’t help but notice the way she said “Dr. Watson”—liquid nitrogen was warmer than her voice. “I’ll give you some free advice, which I don’t usually do. _Don’t_ mess with the Holmes boys. _Either one_. There’s a bond there that _may not_ be visible, but if you mess with it, you _will_ live to regret it.”

 

 

“Thanks for the unsolicited advice,” John grumped.

 

“Take it, if you’re smart,” was her only response.

 

They rode on in silence.

 

John felt like he was about to burst. Feelings threatened to overwhelm him without cause or warning. He clenched and unclenched his hand in silent agitation.

 

“You should open up more to your therapist,” Anthea stated, her voice cool.

 

“Excuse me, what?” John asked, taken off guard by her comment.

 

“You’re holding back, and it’s affecting your relationship with your husband,” She observed, without even looking up from her phone.

 

“And who, _exactly_ , are you to criticize…?”

 

“The person who gets to review the tapes from the surveillance cameras in your flat,” she stated, as if it was a normal, everyday occurrence.

 

John squinted at her. “You... _what_? Do you watch when we…?”

 

Anthea shrugged. “Not my area. I fast-forward through that stuff. I’m an expert in reading body language and I can read lips.”

 

“So, you’ve been _spying_ on us...”

 

“On orders.”

 

“and now you’re...”

 

She turned her head to give him a dark-eyed stare. “Trying to save your marriage, you frickin’ _arse_.”

 

John pulled back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Finally, he was able to say, “Why would _you_ care?”

 

Her gaze was unwavering. “Mycroft Holmes has been very kind to me. I... _care_ about him. Not in any kind of personal or romantic way; he’s just a good man, and it upsets him when his baby brother is unhappy. Distracts him from his job, which is far more important than you can possibly imagine. Sherlock led a very troubled life, prior to meeting you. Mycroft hoped that _you_ would be the one to provide stability, to make him happy, to give him a new lease on life. Instead, you’re bringing back _all_ his insecurities and fears. Did you know,” she said, her face severe, “that Sherlock has an emergency stash in the flat again?”

 

John was shocked. “No! He promised he was _never_ going to...”

 

“And _you_ promised to love, honor, and cherish. Is _that_ what you were doing in the flat before you left?” she retorted, anger bubbling just below the surface of her words. “It looked, to me, like you were about to hit him!”

 

For the first time that night, John was out of words. He just shook his head, mouthing ‘no’.

 

Turning her eyes back to her phone, Anthea stated, “Well, well, it looks like Mycroft would like to have a word with you, after all.” She glanced at John before saying, “I do _not_ envy you, Dr. Watson.”

 

John sat back in his leather-upholstered seat, staring sightlessly at the back to the driver’s head. He could no longer think coherently. His brain was full of alcohol, sex hormones, and self-loathing. He didn’t even bother to keep track of where they were taking him. When the car came to a gentle stop, he simply sighed and clambered out of the door, leaving an uninterested Anthea in his wake.

 

There, as expected, stood Mycroft Holmes, bathed in the light of the car’s high beams. John trudged over to him like a sullen, rebellious child and said, “Isn’t it a little _late_ for you to be up?”

 

The arch of one eyebrow and the down-the-nose look Mycroft gave him said _everything_. “You are causing significant distress to my brother, and I want it to stop, _now_.”

 

“Fuck off, Mycroft,”John sassed, then turned around to leave. He didn’t go far, however, as one of his ankles caught on _something_ , bringing the half-drunk doctor to his knees. With a curse, he turned around to in time to see Mycroft disengaging his curved umbrella handle from John’s foot. He stepped back and, with thinly-veiled sarcasm, said, “Oopsy!”

 

John scrambled to his feet in fury, diving at Mycroft with his fist cocked. Mycroft watched him until, at the last second, he pivoted to one side and tripped John with a well-shod foot, then watched as the smaller man stumbled past him and slammed into a column face-first.

 

“If you’re done trying to be the ‘big, strong, hero’ type that my brother obviously adores, perhaps you will take a moment to hear me out,” Mycroft stated, tapping the cement floor with his umbrella impatiently. “Don’t think that, because I leave the legwork to Sherlock, that I am incapable of defending myself against your puerile temper tantrums.”

 

John hung on the column, catching his breath from the blow it had inflicted upon him. Finally, he turned around and snarled, “What’s between Sherlock and me is _none of your bloody business_!”

 

For the first time in all the years he had known Mycroft, John saw that famous reserve break. Mycroft advanced upon him, grabbing him by the back of his collar and hurling him ass-backward onto the hard concrete. John yelped in indignation and pain. He stared up at the tall, menacing figure that loomed up in his vision.

 

“Are...you... _finished_?” Mycroft ground out, his expression one of barely-suppressed rage. John blinked. He hadn’t expected _this_. He nodded, subdued for the moment.

 

“Good,” Mycroft responded, making no attempt whatsoever to assist his brother-in-law to his feet. “Now, maybe we can talk like _men_ , not rage-besotted demons.” His words dripped acid.

 

John clambered slowly to his feet, his head spinning. Once he had regained his balance, Mycroft asked, sharply, “Why are you taking your rage out on my brother?” There was an unpleasant, accusative edge to his voice.

 

“I...”John started, then pulled himself up short before continuing, softly, “I don’t know.”

 

“Nonsense,” Mycroft snapped back. “You know your own mind, John. You _are_ an educated man, even if you are _not_ as brilliant as my _brother_...”

 

“Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it?” John suddenlysnarled at his brother-in-law. “Nobody’s as smart as the Holmes brothers. Except, maybe, the Holmes sister? Remember her? The _real_ sociopath of the family? _That’s_ were your fucking brilliance got you, isn’t it?”

 

Mycroft straightened a bit, but his mask of control didn’t slip this time. “We are _not_ here to discuss my sister’s mental illness.”

 

“No, we’re not, are we?” John taunted. “Never mention the black sheep of the family. It might make the rest of you more _human_ , hmmm? Then _you_ couldn’t look down upon and judge the _rest_ of us!” He turned a shoulder, crossing his arms in finality.

 

A slow smile crept across Mycroft’s face. “Ah, I think I see a glimmer of hope in you.”

 

John’s defiance melted into confusion. “What?”

 

Tapping his umbrella on the concrete floor, Mycroft looked down, then back up at John. “Without knowing it, I believe you have touched upon the problem between you and my brother.”

 

Turning back to face Mycroft, John screwed up his face and said, “Huh? Is this another one of your bloody puzzles, Mycroft?”

 

The taller man smiled even wider. “Review your statement, John. Narrow it down.”

 

John advanced a step on Mycroft, a warning finger hovering in the air. “ _Don’t_ , Mycroft. Don’t play mind games with me like you do with Sherlock.”

 

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of it. You couldn’t keep up with us...”

 

“SHUT IT, MYCROFT! OR I WILL!” John yelled, in sotted frustration.

 

“Ah, reversion to type, I see. The brawler. Your _father_ was a brawler, too, as I recall.”

 

John clenched a fist. “You don’t know _anything_ about my father...”

 

Mycroft lifted his eyes as he tapped into mental recall. “Your father was an uncouth beast, an alcoholic, who became a soldier so he could beat up people with impunity. Why your mother married him is still a mystery. _Probably_ because your sister was born 7 months later; NOT a premature birth, I can assure you, according to medical records. Stayed with him entirely _too long_ and paid for it with an early death shortly after finally leaving him.”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“He was drummed out of the army because he attacked and shot a superior officer ‘by accident’, although there were reports that he was a discipline problem throughout his stay in the military. Dishonorably discharged _without_ pension. Had to take a series of menial jobs to make ends meet. Well known for taking his anger and frustration out on his wife and children...”

 

“I said, _stop it_.”

 

“Drove his oldest child away because of his violence and hatred of her so-called ‘lifestyle’. She is now a divorced alcoholic under treatment with the NHS. He, then, attempted to ‘beat the gay’ out of his youngest child, causing said child to accept admittance to the first medical program that would accept him.”

 

John could feel his face burning. Here was this man, superior to him in _every_ way, talking about his life as if ticking off talking points in a seminar. His hand was clenched white as he strove to control himself.

 

“Easy for _you_ to say,” he snarled. Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “You were raised in a country home with well-to-do parents and had access to the best of everything. What would you know about _my_ life that isn’t some elitist judgement?”

 

A smirk. “Again, he touches upon it, then walks away. Interesting.” Mycroft checked his impeccable manicure. “The denial is _strong_ in this one.”

 

_That_ was it. John launched himself at Mycroft, who made no move to stop him. Instead, he steadied himself against John’s attack, his eyes meeting John’s with a glint of steel.

 

“Really, John? The Brawler again? I _can’t_ understand what Sherlock _sees_ in you...”

 

“WELL, NEITHER CAN I!” John yelled into Mycroft’s face as he grabbed the man by his lapels. His hands were shaking, his eyes wild with…

 

Mycroft looked closely. Anger? Some. Resentment? Lots. Self-doubt and loathing? _Ah, now we’re getting somewhere_.

 

“Expand upon that, John,” he said, softly. John blinked in surprise. He had never heard Mycroft’s voice sound quite like _that_.

 

“Why?” John asked, his voice uncharacteristically tremulous.

 

“Because you and I both love Sherlock, each in our own way, and I will not stand idly by as you hurt him yet again.”

 

John’s shoulders drooped and he released Mycroft’s lapels. His head dropped, along with his eyes, in defeat.

 

“Explain,” Mycroft whispered.

 

“I don’t deserve him.” The words were bitter in John’s mouth, like hemlock with a lime chaser. “I never _did_. I never _will_.” He dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels. His shoulders shook.

 

“Explain,” Mycroft persisted, gently. John shook his head and tears spattered to the cement floor.

 

“Explain,” Mycroft repeated, kneeling down beside him, suit pants be damned.

 

“I...he’s _perfect_ , Mycroft. He’s beautiful, he’s brilliant, he’s funny, he’s brave...”

 

“Reckless,” Mycroft corrected him, softly. “Difficult, sullen, rebellious, arrogant...”

 

John nodded. “Yes. All those things _and more_. But, to me, he’s... _everything_ _good_. And I _don’t deserve_ him.”

 

“Clarify,” Mycroft urged him, quietly. “Why does that make you angry?”

 

“Because...because he tells me how much he loves me, how _great_ I am, how he couldn’t live without me...and I know he’s _wrong_. The person he _thinks_ he loves _doesn’t exist_. I’m just an empty shell, full of anger, resentment, and bitterness. I try to  push him away...”

 

‘Why?”

 

“So I don’t hurt him again later,” John responded, raising his head. Tears made wandering tracks down his broad face. “My God, Mycroft, I’ve hurt him _so much_ over the years. And every damned time, he has forgiven me, taken me back as though nothing has happened.” He dropped his head again. “I can’t keep doing this to him. I have to find the strength, somehow, to leave him...to _save_ him from _me_.”

 

“Maybe I don’t _want_ to be saved,” came a soft, well-modulated baritone from the shadows. “Have you ever thought of that?”

 

Mycroft turned his head and said, “I wondered when you’d show up, brother dear. You certainly took your sweet time about it.” There was no heat to the words, not even a mild rebuke.

 

The tall, lean form of Sherlock Holmes, wrapped in his usual belstaff longcoat, stepped out into the stark lighting around his brother and husband, hands in pockets. He looked down upon them both, head cocked to one side in appraisal. “Thank you for finding him for me, Mycroft,” he said, his voice ever-so-soft. “I...wasn’t thinking clearly.”

 

“Worry can have that affect upon a person, baby brother. That’s why I have so little time for it,” Mycroft replied as he rose to his feet and stepped back. “Perhaps you would like to take your husband home now? Please, use my car,” he said, with a sweep of his hand.

 

Sherlock nodded, his face immobile but his eyes never leaving the crumpled form of his husband. He stepped in and knelt down, taking John under the arm, and murmured, “Time to go home, John.”

 

“No,” John stated, shaking his head and pulling away slightly. “No, go without me, Sherlock. Find somebody _better_ than me...”

 

“In that case, I’ll be alone for the rest of my life, John. Would you wish _that_ upon me?” Sherlock asked, pointedly. “You _know_ how dangerous I can be when left to my own devices...” He rose to his feet, hauling a rubber-legged John up with him. “Come on, John. Don’t make me carry you.”

 

“Right, right, ‘cause the Great Sherlock Holmes, he can get away with _anything_ as long as his big brother is the British Government, yeah? Not like _I_ get any choice in the matter...” he growled, drunkenly rebelling against Sherlock’s grip and his attempts to lead him to the car. “GET YOUR BLOODY HANDS OFF OF ME! It’s _my_ choice, _not_ yours. Just... _leave me alone!_ ” he roared.

 

Sherlock abruptly released him, allowing him to wander out of the derelict old building. As he passed the open car door, he heard Anthea hiss, “You’re an _idiot_ , John Watson. Go ahead and walk away. I hope you regret it.” He ignored her and kept walking out to the abandoned street, turned right, and disappeared into the dimly-lit night.

 

Mycroft moved up beside Sherlock. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Perhaps I shouldn’t have intervened...”

 

“Not your fault, and not your problem” his brother replied, shaking his head slowly even as his eyes followed John’s retreat. “ _He_ has a problem. He knows it and I know it. He just can’t stand being... _less_ than.”

 

“’Less than’ what?” Mycroft inquired, looking after the departed figure.

 

“Less than perfect. Less than the exact opposite of his father. Less than completely and totally _worthy_ of a crazy man who’s a drug addict.” A smile quirked at one corner of his mouth. “He won’t be happy until he can lift Thor’s hammer and hear it say ‘Thank you’.”

 

Mycroft chuckled dryly at the analogy. “None of us can do that. Not even _you_.”

 

Sherlock bestowed a quizzical look upon his brother. “ _Me_? I’m about as imperfect as they come, brother mine.”

 

“Not judging from the tabloids. You’re the Second Coming in a deerstalker hat”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If you’re reading the tabloids, you _already_ have a credibility problem.” He lowered his eyes before continuing. “I would gladly trade a credibility problem for the one I have _now_. How do you convince someone you love that they are, indeed, worthy of being loved?”

 

Mycroft smiled and patted his younger brother on the shoulder. “I wish I knew the answer to that question _myself_ , baby brother. As it is, I am going home to try and puzzle it out over a glass of good Scotch. Care to come?”

 

A shake of a dark, curly-haired head. “No, thank you, Mycroft. I think I’ve imposed upon you enough for one night. Again, thank you for finding John. I think I’ll take over from here.” He walked out the same way John did, only a bit slower. As he passed the open car door, he heard a light, feminine voice say, “Good luck! He’s a stubborn one.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied, with a bit of a chuckle in his voice. “I’m well aware of that already.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an evening of arguments and poor decisions, John and Sherlock have to clear the air before they can find their own peace...

“Stupid,” John muttered to himself as he wandered through the darkened streets of London, unsure of where he was or where he was going. “I should have accepted that ride back. I got no idea where I am.” He leaned against a street sigh and waved. “Taxi!” he yelled, but several in a row passed him by. He harrumphed to himself in irritation. Sherlock always made it look so easy. Then again, Sherlock is tall, good-looking, and dresses like a toff, so expectations of a good tip are high. John dressed like an everyman who didn’t have an extra pound to buy a pint. 

“Bugger it,” he muttered as he kept walking toward what, he hoped, was the high street. It seemed better lit and had more traffic than the street he was currently on, which seemed rather industrial. The night had gotten significantly cooler than it had been when he’d left 221B. Now he was regretting not taking a heavier jacket with him. 

“Hey, guv, give us the watch and the wallet,” a voice said from behind him. 

John stopped and turned. A young man stood in a crouch behind him, holding an open switchblade. The shadowy figure gestured at him, making jerky, cutting movements with the blade. “Give it over! Don’t make me stick ya!”

John Watson smiled. It was a very dry, unpleasant smile that promised pain and mayhem and, perhaps, even a touch of personal injury. “Oi, boyo, you may want to think this over and just take your leave before anything gets out of hand, yeah?”

The young man emitted an ugly-sounding laugh. “Nah, I don’t think so, guv. Why don’t you give me your valuables and maybe I’ll let ya live, ‘ow’s that?”

John grinned like a hungry shark. “Have it your own way, mate,” he said, striding purposefully toward the shadowy figure, his hands clenched. The figure backed up warily, still waving the knife in front of him.

“Get back, guv! I’ll cut ya!” he warned.

“Please do,” John encouraged him, his grin becoming even more feral as he approached. “I’ve got no reason to live. I just walked out on my husband, my work, and my home. I’ve got nothing left. But I’m not going to let a piece of shite like you push me around!”

The figure sneered. “Gayboy, eh? Heh, this should be easy...”

He never got to finish that thought. John ducked a knife thrust to the outside, caught the man’s forearm with his own and, using the palm of his other hand, delivered a blow that shattered the ruffian’s elbow, causing him to scream in pain. John then grabbed the man’s wrist and swung it behind him, pinning him in a wrist-shoulder lock that twisted his fractured elbow into an unnatural attitude. This resulted in even more screaming.

“Oh, shut it,” John retorted irritably. He kicked the back of the man’s knees and he went down to the pavement with a painful thud, at which point, John delivered a mighty kick to the small of the man’s back, sending him face-first into the concrete. He lay there, groaning, as John leaned over him and said, “Thanks for the workout, mate. I feel much better now.” He patted him on the head and kept walking down the street toward the bustling traffic ahead. He turned around once, to see the ruffian still lying on the ground, twitching. He smiled to himself.

The smile faded as the adrenaline wore off and he began to think more clearly. He had just beaten a man to a pulp and enjoyed it. Enjoyed it. There was a violence inside of him that scared him, that made him afraid for Sherlock. Just imagine if that had been Sherlock. Instead of bumping him aside, I might have attacked him, injured him, and I would have enjoyed it. He shook his head. I’m a monster inside a very small, angry man. He deserves better than that...better than me.

He heard a footfall behind him and spun around. He saw nothing. He had left the thug in the shadows a ways back, but he was on the alert for a new threat. These streets could be dangerous for anyone alone. The sooner he gained the high street, the better.

There was another sound, like someone bumping into a trashcan. He looked around again, in time to see a small tabby cat run across the street full-tilt. He laughed at himself. After facing a robber, he was being spooked by a little pussy…

That made him think about Della, the woman he nearly cheated on Sherlock with. He wondered if she was still at the pub. Probably pretty pissed off at him for running off like that. Not that he cared, really. She was just a symptom of the disease living inside of him. The anger and self-loathing that had been instilled in him by his father. The bitterness of never being good enough, of never being accepted for who he was. Always having to be someone else’s idea of perfect. 

Now, that’s a conceit. Perfection; it doesn’t exist. It’s something that’s imposed upon you. Humans aren’t perfect, can’t be perfect and be human. Sherlock is perfect, and, yet, he’s not. He’s perfect for me without ever asking me to be perfect for him. Therefore, I want to be perfect for him, which makes me resent him for me wanting to be perfect, which I can’t be and he doesn’t want me to be. Then I get angry at him and we argue. I say things that hurt him because I’m hurting because I can’t be perfect for him. Then he forgives me for hurting him, which makes me realize how perfect and wonderful he is and I want to be perfect for him again. And then I resent him, again! God, how does this crazy cycle end?

He finally reached the high street and recognized where he was. He knew the way to Baker Street; he also knew the way to the pub where he had left Della. Doubt she’s there anymore, and, if she was, why would she want to have anything to do with me? I’m nothing. Without Sherlock, I’m nothing.

He walked aimlessly, sometimes crossing streets, sometimes turning corners to avoid traffic. Hands in his jacket pockets, head down, no one bothered him. Why should they? I’m no one. Just an angry little man...

What would he have done if he had taken Della up on her obvious offer? Done it in the loo? Gone back to her place? Fucked in an alley? His shiver had nothing to do with the cold. He was repelled by what he had almost done. That was something Three-Continents Watson would have done, but he’s long gone, isn’t he? In his place is Dr. John H. Watson, husband and blogger of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. He far preferred that life, even if he didn’t feel as though he deserved it. Not good enough, not perfect, not worthy...

He’d done it before, he realized. Had a good thing going and then done something to screw it up. Sarah, for example, and every girlfriend he’d met since. He’d had a nice relationship going with each of them, then fucked it up by saying or doing something stupid. Self-sabotage; story of my life. Screw yourself over because you don’t deserve to be happy. You don’t deserve to have nice things. You don’t deserve to have Sherlock...

He shook his head in irritation. How does everything come back around to Sherlock? He had a life apart from Sherlock once, and he could do it again. And yet...all those women...how had he screwed up those relationships? By putting them second to Sherlock, of course, the man he had demanded he was ‘not gay’ for time and time again. The man who was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He cast his mind back. He had broken up with Sarah in Australia, after they had had sex and he, unknowingly, had called her Sherlock when he came. She hadn’t much appreciated that. “The One with the Spots”, as Sherlock had called her (God, he couldn’t even remember her name now), got tired of him dropping her off at home whenever Sherlock had called him for a case, and “The One with the Nose” (Shirley? Sherry? Charlotte? Shit…) disliked Sherlock so much she refused to come around to 221B at all (much to Sherlock’s delight), so they always met for a date somewhere else, where she would spend all the time they weren’t fucking complaining about his flatmate and his rudeness. John had finally decided that the one he could do without was Nose-lady and had ended the relationship. And, finally, Jeanette, who had, in reality, just been a physical stand-in for Sherlock, and someone he had totally ignored whenever Sherlock was around. She had been the one who had pointed out his unfortunate predilection toward “making her (and, by extension, all the others) compete with Sherlock Holmes”. She had also pointed out what a great boyfriend he was—to Sherlock. Between that, and Irene’s observation about John and Sherlock being a couple, John’s entire worldview had been suddenly turned upside down. 

Just when he’d started entertaining thoughts that being in a relationship with Sherlock the Sociopath might not be quite as bad as he thought it could be, Sherlock had died. More specifically, Sherlock had thrown himself off a building. To save John, although he didn’t realize that until much later. And, honestly, that just made everything that came after it that much worse. The guilt, the anger, the depression...he’d almost jumped off a building once or twice himself. He’d even taken out his gun from time to time and toyed with it. Yet, there was always a niggling bit of doubt, that unshakable faith that Sherlock would return somehow. The occasional glimpse of a tall, long-coated figure ducking around a corner. Cryptic texts from no one. A familiar face through a window that disappeared before he could react. These things kept him insulated, isolated from everyone. Except Mary. She had actively worked to get under his skin, to make him move forward, to tell him there was life after Sherlock.

Well, there had been. Just as he and Mary were about to embark upon a new life together, guess who shows up in a ridiculous disguise, acting as if nothing had happened. Sherlock Holmes, the most clueless detective in England. But, this time, he hadn’t thrown Mary aside. No, this time would be different; this time, it was Sherlock who took a back seat to his girlfriend.

Except he hadn’t. Instead, he had became the best friend any man could want. Even won over Mary, for God’s sake. How was he supposed to get over his feelings for Sherlock when Sherlock was right there, all the time, being just the best person he could ever be? But, no, John’s own trust issues had come roaring back to the surface, demanding to know how he could ever trust Sherlock again, when the real issue was, how could he ever trust his own instincts again? After all, John had hated Sherlock for having faked his death and disappeared for two years—but it had been done to save him from Moriarty’s cartel. Sherlock, the man he no longer trusted fully, hadn’t shot Mary, but, rather, Mary, the woman he had chosen over Sherlock, who had shot his dearest friend in a selfish bid to keep her assassin past a secret. Having made those kinds of miscalculations, how could John ever trust his own decisions again?

And, yet, once Mary was disgraced and dead, he had gone against his own history of bad judgments and married Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective (the Only One in the World, for God’s sake), the perfect friend, the loving husband, the long-suffering flatmate, the perfect, the beautiful, the brilliant…

“Shit!”he yelled, kicking a nearby garbage bin. Always about Sherlock! Everything’s about Sherlock…  
“I made the right choice; he fucked up, for once! He married me!” John yelled. A passing couple gave him a wary look as they rushed past him. God, I must look, and sound, like a madman...

So, Sherlock was imperfect. He had chosen the most ordinary, unimpressive, excruciatingly sub-par man he could have chosen as a husband. But, why? Obvious; Sherlock was searching for mediocrity so he could shine that much brighter…he gritted his teeth. Bastard. You know that’s a lie.

A glimpse of a long, dark coat swirling around a corner sent John scurrying after it. Damn him, he’s been following me! Can’t even let me be miserable in peace! He was furious. I don’t need him babysitting me! I’m competent! I’m self-reliant! I’m…

Fucking wrong. He skidded to a halt, almost bouncing off the tall man in the long black coat who looked not one bit like Sherlock. John studied him carefully, just to make sure it wasn’t Sherlock in disguise. The elderly man stared down at him in confusion. Unless Sherlock had lost several stone and suddenly become Indian, John doubted this was him. He apologized profusely and scarpered off, his face hot with embarrassment. 

After he rounded the corner back to the high street, John decided that maybe, just maybe, he should return to Baker Street. He needed time to think and it was exceedingly bad form to be accosting total strangers in a drunken haze whilst trying to work out one’s relationship problems. He looked at his watch. It was late, but not late enough that Sherlock would be in bed yet, which meant he’d have to face him when he came in. He seriously considered just sitting in the park until dawn, but that seemed to be a bad idea, considering everything that had happened tonight. Besides, Sherlock would be in a panic by morning, if he wasn’t already…

Sherlock. His phone. John withdrew his mobile from his pocket and thumbed it on. As it came to life, notification after notification popped up, each accompanied by the same sound--Sherlock’s distinctive ping. John counted until he reached twenty, then started looking around for the shortest route back to Baker Street. The pings kept coming. Shit, he must be frantic by now.

His first urge was to run, just not toward Baker Street. He wasn’t that sure he wanted to deal with his husband right at the moment. He was still too drunk, too angry, and had too many questions—not for Sherlock, but for himself. Besides, how could he face Sherlock when he had caused him so much anguish? He had just walked out on him a few hours ago, telling him to find someone else. And, then, just a few minutes ago, he had wondered if Sherlock had married him just so he would have someone he could feel superior to. As if Sherlock was ever at a shortage of that. John shook his head in disgust. What kind of a sick thought was that? John Watson, you are a fucking worthless, undeserving bastard…

Ping.

John looked down at his phone. A single text message was displayed. 

\--Come home, John. We’ll talk. SH

A second ping.

\--I love you. SH

John threw his head back, blinking back tears. God. Whatever I did to deserve this man, it clearly wasn’t enough.

He turned and trudged back toward Baker Street. No choice, then. It would be cruel beyond belief to avoid him now.

>>>***<<<

The lights were warm and welcoming in the second-story windows. John stopped across the street and watched. No one moved against the sheer curtains, and there was no sound of a violin playing. John shrugged and walked across the narrow street, pausing only to slip his key into the lock and open the outer door. Once inside, John could smell Mrs. Hudson’s apple cobbler. He knew Mrs. Hudson baked whenever she was upset. He sighed. That was another battle for another day.

As he mounted the stairs, he strained his ears for the sound of...anything, really. The flat was dreadfully quiet, except for the crackle of a fire in the hearth. Well, it was chilly out, so that was understandable. These old houses weren’t as well insulated as some of the newer structures on the outskirts of town. That was one reason Sherlock always wore a dressing gown; he always complained about his bum being cold. John smirked for a moment at the thought before it vanished, along with the smile. He climbed the switch-back stairs and found himself standing in the parlor door. He looked inside before entering.

“Welcome back,” a mellifluous voice said. A tall figure sat facing the fireplace, long legs stretched toward the warming glow. There was no movement, not even a head turn.

“Were you following me?” John demanded.

“When?” Laconically.

“After the warehouse.”

A single nod of a dark head. “Yes. For a short while. However, once I saw that you were able to...handle yourself, even in your inebriated state, I figured you didn’t require a guardian angel.”

“Hmmph. that’s a first.”

“Upset that I didn’t follow?”

A pause. “No. I wasn’t in the mood for company.”

“So I perceived.”

His mind slowly clearing itself of it’s alcoholic shroud, a thought rose to the surface unbidden. Something he had heard Mycroft say at the warehouse. Something that might explain Sherlock’s current state...

“Where is it?” John asked, cutting to the chase.

“Where is what?” came the blasé answer.

“You know. Where is it?”

The dark head nodded toward a small case on the table beside him. “There.”

“Used any?” he pressed.

The dark head shook. “No. But the time was fast approaching.”

John crossed the room, took up the case, and opened it. Inside was a group of wrapped, disposable syringes with needles attached, a tournequet, some packaged alcohol wipes, and a pre-prepared vial of solution. John nodded. “At least, you’re careful.”

“Why do you think I never acquired any diseases during my time on the streets? The chemist in me is too careful.” Sherlock responded, still not directly engaging his husband.

“Good, good,” John nodded, just before taking the vial and hurling it into the fireplace, smashing it into shards against the ash-coated brick.

“Pointless. I can just make more,” Sherlock droned. 

“You promised...” John started, heatedly.

“So did you,” came the lifeless response. Still no direct acknowledgment of John’s presence. “Love, honor, cherish, all that uplifting language...you promised you would communicate with me, that you’d let me in, let me help you, let me be a part of your inner life. That’s not working out very well, is it?” Sherlock finally lifted his head to peer up at his husband. “’Go find someone else’, you said. ‘Don’t I get a say in this?’, you said. Well, John, don’t I?” His eyes were piercing. 

John dropped the case on Sherlock’s table and sat down in his own chair. He sat primly, uncomfortably, with his hands in his lap, like an errant child. 

“How’d your date go?” Sherlock inquired as he turned back to watch the flames that danced perilously close to his perfectly-kept Oxfords.

“What?” John jerked in surprise. “How…?”

Sherlock laconically held up his phone for John to see. On it was displayed an image of Della, sitting almost on top of John, kissing him, with one hand underneath the table in a spot that required no imagination whatsoever. John wilted. Shit…

“Nothing happened,” he said, lamely.

Sherlock turned the phone so he could view the image and stated, flatly, “It looks like a great deal is going on, to my unpracticed eye.” The sarcasm dripped from every word.

“Where did you get...” John started, weakly.

“One of the network. They all know who you are, and they keep watch for...unusual incidents, which they report to me.”

Anger flared. “They have no right to…!”

Sherlock surged forward in his chair, turned his body sharply toward John, and yelled, fiercely, “DO NOT FAULT THEM FOR YOUR OWN SHORTCOMINGS, JOHN!” 

John froze, then slouched back in his chair, rebuked. Sherlock slowly turned back to the fire, his face an impassive mask once again. “You still have your wallet, I see. That means you didn’t return to the pub to finish your liaison.”

John squinted in confusion. “What does that have to do with…?”

Sherlock held up the phone again. “Her name is Della. She is rather well-known at the pubs. She chooses her mark, makes her move, takes advantage of his emotional and/or sexual state, then rolls him for his wallet. Since you still are in possession of your money and credit cards, you did not succumb to her wiles.” He dropped his hand, and the phone, into his lap.

“Shit.”

“Precisely.”

After a minute’s silence, John said, “I couldn’t.”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows rose silently. “Couldn’t do it, or couldn’t get it up with her? After all, you have been ‘tainted’ by having sex with a man for all this time...”

“Stop it,” John commanded, angrily. The other Sherlockian eyebrow rose. “We’re not going there. That’s a non-issue and you know it.”

“Then why did you not take her up on her most-generous offer?”

John took a deep breath and sighed it back out. “She tried. I have to admit, I was tempted. She was very pretty, had beautiful hair...”

“Her stock and trade. I can give you the name and number of the hair dye she uses, if you’re interested...”

“Shut it. You know she kissed me...”

“So, you didn’t initiate it?”

John hesitated. “No. I was just in the mood to talk, frankly. Probably would have sat there complaining that my husband didn’t understand me or some rot like that...”

A quirk of a set of full lips. “Appropriate.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t even get the chance. She started kissing me and...”

Sherlock’s eyes closed and his face went rigid, as if he was preparing for something unpleasant.

“All I could think of was how you could have done it better. How your lips were fuller and more passionate, your fingers more clever and agile...so, basically, I stopped because she wasn’t you. And I didn’t go back afterwards for exactly the same reason.”

The set of Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed visibly, but his expression still didn’t change.

After another minute’s silence, John sat up straight in his chair. “So, why the drugs? Tit for tat? I cheat, you take drugs? A little revenge scenario?”

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly. “I don’t indulge in that sort of pettiness, John. No, I take drugs to dull the pain, to put reality at a comfortable distance. In my case, it would have been used as anesthesia. You see, John, I am an imperfect man. You use sex to cope with your pain, while I resort to chemical means.” 

Without moving, he held up one hand. Between two fingers lay a small vial, identical to the one John had thrown into the fireplace. “As you can see, I can always make more. Do you think I bother to work in small quantities when faced with pain of this magnitude, John?” He closed his hand and, when he extended his fingers again, another vial had appeared between the next two fingers, identical to the first. “It’s really quite simple to create these little doses of comfort, you see.” Once again, he closed his hand and, when he opened it again, there were three vials, one held in each space between his fingers. 

“Give them to me,” John said, his voice slightly tremulous with anger. “Now.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Very well.” He closed his hand and tossed the vials to John, one by one, over his shoulder. “There. Happy now?”

“Not really, no. Why? Why would you do that to yourself?” John asked as he palmed the vials.

Sherlock shrugged again. “To dull the pain, as I said. You know I hate repeating myself, John.” He uncrossed his long legs and sat up straighter in his chair. “If you had decided to indulge in your favorite pastime with a woman like Della, which seems to provide you with more comfort than any other types of encounters,” again, there was acid in the words, “then I would have required some surcease from pain as I dealt with it.” He held up his hand and, in yet another feat of legerdemain, produced a new vial between two extended fingers. “Perhaps this would not have been enough. No matter,” he added as he closed his hand again and yet another vial appeared. 

John sucked in his breath. “Sherlock...you’re scaring me.”

“I don’t think you understand yet the degree to which your indiscretions, your rages, your continuing inability to come to grips with your own—and my—imperfections affect my emotional well-being. Having learned how to experience emotions, I am now faced with having to learn how to not let them destroy me.” He closed his hand yet again. Before he could open it, John leaned forward and grabbed his fist. Sherlock calmly turned his face toward his husband’s, silver eyes inquiring.

“Stop, Sherlock,” John said, breathing heavily. My God, my god, my God, what is he doing? “How much of this would you have taken?”

Silver eyes didn’t waver. “One is sufficient to create a very pleasant state of dissociation from this world lasting several hours. Two, unconscious state for about a day. Three...” Sherlock smiled blankly. “Possible eternal sleep in the arms of Morpheus.” He pulled his hand away from John’s and opened it, revealing three vials between his fingers. “However, four, if you want to make sure you’re never revived by medical means.” A flourish of his hand and a fourth vial appeared between his thumb and hand. 

John fell back into his chair in shock. “That’s it? I cheat and you kill yourself? How is that fair, Sherlock?”

Sherlock cocked his head. “How is it fair that you show me how to love and then withhold it from me? How fair is it that you hold me—and yourself--to a rigid standard that can never be met?” He paused, then asked, thoughtfully. “Do you think me perfect, John?”

John nodded. “Yes.”

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes closed. “I can assure you, I am not.”

John looked down and stated “You are. You deserve the best the world can offer. You deserve someone better than me.”

There was the smallest quirk of a smile on Sherlock’s lips as he stated, “Strange, I was thinking the same thing myself, every time I texted.” 

John gave him a quizzical look. Sherlock then opened his eyes and stated, “You should have the best of everything, including a better husband than me.”

John blinked, then blinked again. He blurted out. “What? Are you daft?”

The smile edged up just a little more. “Possibly. After all, I did foolishly think I might be worthy of you,” Sherlock finished, his defensive mask starting to slip, as John heard the slightest crack in that otherwise controlled tone.

John shook his head again, this time as if to clear it. “Wait, what? No! You are...”

“A flawed man, John, deeply flawed. I am a recovering drug addict who can’t ask for help. If you had not shown up when you did, I would have been a relapsed drug addict, possibly a dead one. I can’t bear emotional pain as others do. I am largely still estranged to most emotions except for the ones you have taught me...”

“Sherlock…” John whispered, his voice shaking with suppressed emotion.

Sherlock rose slowly from his chair but, instead of standing, he knelt facing John, his feet crossed as he sat back on his heels. His face opened up like a tragic bloom as he peered up into his husband’s face and said, softly, “I love you, John, but I need you equally as much. You keep me right. You keep me stable. You give me the understanding and support I could never give myself or find in others. Without you, I fall apart, I become less.” His eyes were deep silver pools that drew John into them. “If you wanted to leave, I would let you go because it would be what’s best for you, but I would wither away and, eventually, disappear into a fog of drug-induced delusion. An empty shell, awaiting it’s final dissolution and death.” He blinked back tears. “I don’t say this to coerce you into staying, John. I say this because it is the truth. I’m not what you think I am, and you are so much more than you think you are.” 

John tentatively touched Sherlock’s cheek, stroking the sharp cheekbone gently before smearing away a couple of tears that had escaped Sherlock’s normally iron control. “I know you’re not perfect, Sherlock. I’m not asking you to be...”

“You know it, but you have not acknowledged it,” Sherlock responded, his voice almost inaudible as he struggled to retain some level of composure. “It is the difference between knowing water is wet and being immersed in it.”

John pressed his lips together as he threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s curls and lowered his own head so that their foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes and said, “I love you, Sherlock. I love you so much it makes me crazy sometimes. Yeah, I think you’re perfect for me, but I know you’re not, you know, ‘perfect’ perfect. Neither am I, but I want to be a better man for you. I just don’t know how.”

“Let me in,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes also closed. “Don’t be afraid of what I’ll think, because I will always, always, love you, no matter what. I don’t need you to be a better man, but if you want to try to be one, do it for yourself, not for me. We’ve both been broken, damaged by the world, but, somehow, together, we are more than what we are separately. That is our strength.”

John pulled his head back and looked down into Sherlock’s eyes as they opened. “You’ve always known, haven’t you? The Great Detective has always known who I really am.”

“Not always, no. But I have been able to suss it out over time. You are not a hard man to read, John Watson, but you are hard to reach, and you always surprise me.” A tremulous smile graced that tempting mouth. “You think you have to be perfect for me?” He shook his head. “No, you don’t. You think you have to be worthy of me?” Again, a shake of the head. “No. You far surpass me in so many ways. You think you don’t deserve to be happy?” Yet another shake of the head. “You do, you stupid git! Let me prove it to you. Let me help you, as you have helped me, to become fulfilled as a human being. We can rewrite ourselves. We can create a future together that we could never have dreamt of before we met.” Sherlock leaned in and kissed him. John’s head swum just a bit at the gloriousness of it. “Just, let me in. Trust me; even if you don’t trust yourself, trust me.” He winked and grinned, shakily. “Even if I am a bit daft.”

Tears burst from John’s blue eyes as he suddenly sobbed, releasing all the anger and fear and self-hatred he had been carrying around with him all night. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his husband’s waist, laid his head in his lap, and let John double over and cry into his back, his arms squeezing Sherlock’s ribs so tightly that the detective finally had to beg for breath. 

Once the storm had passed, John sat up and ran his fingers through his husband’s hair. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

Sherlock raised his head, looked up into his husband’s face, and said, with a weary but impish smile, “Just don’t say I’m perfect, okay?”

John snorted a light laugh. “Agreed.”

“We start again, from today. Is that all right?” Sherlock asked, his face painfully earnest.

John nodded and smiled down at him. “More than all right, love. It’s perfect.”


End file.
